Distracted In Siberia
by weepingangelofnewnewyork
Summary: A Clintasha fic based off of Taylor Swift's Song, You Are In Love. Basically a romance story with a lot of action and angst and maybe some forbidden love.
1. one look

"Tasha."

It was her name on his lips, moaned quietly in another room, that pulled her from a dreamless sleep. At first, she stayed in her bed, not sure what had woken her, until she heard it again.

"Tasha!" The call was still weak, but more insistent this time, more urgent. Natasha tossed the covers away from herself and slipped off of her bed, bare feet hitting the hard floor softly. The chilly floorboards chased the drowsiness from her mind as she crossed the room and crept into the hallway, then opened the door directly opposite hers. She entered the dark room soundlessly and shut the door behind her.

She could hear him before her eyes adjusted to the dark. He was crying out, but hoarsely, as if he thought something were stopping him from actually screaming. Natasha approached his bed and took a seat on the edge of it, near his head.

"Clint."

He shuddered and swung an arm out towards her, but didn't open his eyes.

"Clint?" Natasha found a trembling hand and squeezed it between both of hers.

His eyes flew wide open, and she could have sworn to see tears forming in them, reflecting the moonlight. Suddenly, he lost control of his body, and lashed out at her. His fist materialized out of the darkness and landed squarely on her mouth. It stung. Natasha ducked beneath a waving arm and quickly moved over him, crouching with one knee settled on his chest, her hands pinning his wrists to the mattress at either side of his head.

"Clint! Wake up!" She shook him hard, and he gradually relaxed. His eyes opened at last, still wild with fear.

"Clint," Natasha repeated, relief engulfing her as she saw him focus in on her face.

"Tash?" He sounded confused, and she released his wrists, moving off of him to sit back.

"You were having a nightmare," Natasha informed him. Clint sighed raggedly, and brought his hands up to rub his eyes. A warmth tickled Natasha's lower lip and it tasted metallic when she touched it with the tip of her tongue.

Blood.

He'd split her lip open.

Then her eyes met with Clint's, and she hid her tongue hastily. He hadn't done it on purpose and she didn't want to upset him. Nightmares were bad enough without knowing you had punched someone in your sleep.

"You okay?" Natasha shifted and flicked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I am now," Clint responded, pushing up into a sitting position. His t-shirt was wrinkled and saturated with sweat, and his hair stood out in several different directions. "Nightmares suck, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," Natasha agreed with feeling. "Do you want to talk about it?" She sucked her lower lip, making sure that the blood didn't drip onto her chin.

Clint shrugged. "Nah. It was just a nightmare, you know? Once you've had one, you've had 'em all. They're all crap. They're all the same." But he didn't seem to fully believe his own words.

Natasha studied him thoughtfully, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the shape of his nose, the way his eyes always seemed to be searching for something in hers.

Like they were now.

Natasha froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Clint's gaze shifted downward, and he sat up straighter. An invisible force pulled her closer, closer to him, closing the gap between them…

A low ringing startled Natasha, and she turned away abruptly. She wasn't sure what they'd been interrupted from, but she couldn't say she was glad that they had been.

Clearing his throat, Clint stretched across her and snagged his phone from the nightstand next to his bed.

"Hello?" he mumbled, his voice lower than normal, heavy with sleep.

Unsure and uncomfortable, Natasha stood to leave Clint's room and return to her own. But a warm hand closed around her wrist, anchoring her to the floor and sending an unexpected chill down her spine. When she turned back to the bed, Clint let go of her and held up a finger, telling her to wait.

"Yes, sir," he said into the phone. "We'll be there in ten." He hung up and slid out of bed, turning on a lamp. "Cap needs backup, he's in Siberia," he explained shortly, as Natasha blinked from the unexpected brightness. "Fury wants us to take the quinjet from HQ." He pulled some clothes from the closet and threw a shirt on over his head.

"Meet you in the truck?" Natasha suggested, and Clint agreed, with a familiar smile that cleared some of the confusion swirling in her mind. Nodding quickly, she left the room.

* * *

 **I hope you like this so far! I started this story in December and I'm almost done with it now, but it may be a little while before I get the next chapter up, because I re-read it recently and decided I didn't like it. So I'm re-writing it oops. And then I still have to send it to my editor (who is incredible btw, and makes me sound smarter than I actually am. Props to her). But I decided to go ahead and post the first chapter in hopes that it would motivate me to keep writing :) Have a great day! xoxo**


	2. play it back

**Hey guys! Chapter two is finally up yay! I'm hoping to be a little more consistent in updating this story oops :D Thank you so much for your support! xoxo**

* * *

Time was moving too fast.

For the past several hours, Clint and Natasha had been on the jet to Siberia, Russia. Natasha had been reviewing mission plans, chatting with Clint, and generally putting off the inevitable. Which was to actually stop and think about what had happened in Clint's room and what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

Natasha had never been in love with a person and she planned on keeping it that way. Love was a liability, a compromise, a weakness. Something she couldn't afford. But recently, Natasha had felt different around him, something she didn't want to acknowledge. Something that made her unnaturally worried – a nervous, fluttery feeling that started in the middle of her stomach and quickly worked its way up into her chest. It made her want to punch something. Or shoot something. Or kiss... someone.

The thought startled Natasha and she brushed it away quickly. She didn't want to kiss him. They were professional partners. And professional work partners don't want to kiss each other. Fury was a professional work partner, and Natasha didn't want to kiss him, either. She didn't want to kiss anyone.

A nagging voice at the back of her mind reminded her of dark rooms, of leaning closer to Clint…

She told it to shut up.

After all, they hadn't been about to kiss, she was sure of it. She hadn't been about to kiss Clint; she didn't even want to kiss him. And she was sure he felt the same way.

 _I'm right, aren't I?_

Natasha stole a glance at Clint. He was sitting at the controls of the quinjet to her left, frowning in concentration as he mumbled to himself under his breath. Was it her imagination or was her stomach starting to feel strange? Daring the fluttery feeling to make an appearance, Natasha stared closely at him, studying every detail of him in the dimly-lit quinjet. She explored every inch of his face, the twitch of his mouth, the crease in his forehead, the light blue of his eyes; then followed the line of his neck to his broad shoulders, muscular arms, and solid chest. The uncomfortable tingling sensation in her stomach grew and she froze.

Clint glanced at her and did a double-take when he caught her staring. "What?"

Natasha ducked her head down, reaching for the control panel to turn up the AC. When had it gotten so uncomfortably warm? She was almost sweating, and they were in Siberia.

"Nothing."

The fluttery feelings were as just hunger pains. It had been a while since she'd eaten last, after all. She looked quickly at Clint, who had a puzzled smile on his face. Her gut knotted. When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn't remember. It must have been a while ago. She was getting hungry.

"Um, okay," said Clint, clearing his throat. "Are you ready to jump?"

Natasha gave a quick nod in response, pushing away all thoughts of hunger pains and looks in dark rooms. She stood, removed her headset, then grabbed a parachute waiting the wall and began to buckle it on.

"Remember, you have to cause a big enough distraction that I can land the jet without too much opposition," Clint cautioned. "The Red Skull Organization is fairly new, and since their only base is small, that shouldn't be a problem. Take out as many agents as you can. Rescuing Steve is not a priority until I can get in there and join you, since they're probably keeping a close eye on him. Just be distracting."

Natasha turned on her comm. "Be distracting. Not a problem."

Clint grinned. "Savage," he teased.

Natasha smirked.

Leaning forward, Clint flipped a switch that opened a hatch in the side of the quinjet. "Catch you later, partner," he shouted over the rush of wind.

Natasha double-checked her Widow's Bites and glanced up at him, and her lips quirked into a smile. "Not if I catch you first." She stepped out into thin air.

And she was falling. The icy wind chilled her ears, and the stinging snowflakes brought tears to her eyes. Natasha yanked her parachute open, and a second passed before her body jerked as her parachute filled with air, and her descent slowed. Floating down through a low layer of clouds, Natasha shivered involuntarily as she drew her guns.

When she emerged from the cloud bank, the Red Skull Organization's base loomed below her, covered in a thick layer of white. There were two guards posted at the entrance, their black uniforms a stark contrast to the snow. Natasha shot them both before they noticed her—one in the head and the other in the shoulder. The injured guard yelled in pain, dropping his gun to cradle his arm.

"I feel like the screams of men in pain are your theme music, Nat," Clint commented in her ear, and Natasha could hear a smile in his voice.

"You think you're so funny," she replied. Her feet hit the ground and sunk several inches into the snow.

"Because I _am_ so funny," Clint defended himself.

"Well, I'm working, so you can shut up anytime you want."

Natasha shrugged the parachute from her shoulders and hastened to approach the fallen Red Skull agent. He saw her coming and tried to heft his assault rifle towards her, but gave up with a groan, clutching his injured arm. Natasha stalked up to him and yanked him to his feet. He towered over her, but she shot a scowl up at him and wasn't surprised when he gulped visibly. She had that effect on people.

Cocking her gun, she pressed the cold barrel to his temple.

"Get me inside," she ordered in Russian.

He nodded enthusiastically and moved to punch in the security code, flinching when she shoved her pistol closer into his head warningly.

Creaking on their hinges, the heavy iron doors opened slowly when the agent pushed against them. Natasha grabbed the agent's arm and held him in front of her to shield herself, moving her gun to rest between his shoulder blades.

As soon as they stepped into the facility, Natasha heard the unmistakable click of guns being cocked and found herself facing a small group of Red Skull agents. By her estimation, there were roughly ten. She had been expecting a little less since it was such a small base, but ten was nothing she couldn't handle.

"Take me to Captain America, or I will blow your agent's brains out," she demanded, locking eyes with the nearest Red Skull Agent, the obvious leader.

He raised his rifle without breaking eye contact with Natasha.

 _He's going to kill him._

Natasha yanked a small tear gas grenade from her belt and pulled the pin just as the leader of the Red Skull agents pulled the trigger. Her captive slid heavily to the floor, deadweight, and his head hit the ground at the same time as the grenade.

Leaving the Red Skull agents choking and trying to clear the toxins from their eyes, Natasha escaped into a hallway through a side door.

 _Where could Steve be?_

Natasha hurried down hallways, checking in every room for Steve. Rounding a corner, guns first, she came face-to-face with two agents standing outside a door. According to the blueprints she'd memorized, they were guarding the laboratory.

 _Aha._

Natasha sent two bullets flying side-by-side into their brains.

"Found him," she told Clint, pressing two fingers to her comm.

"10-4. I'm on my way in," Clint responded, and since she could no longer hear the sound of quinjet engines over the comm, Natasha assumed he'd made it safely inside the base.

"Where are you?" Clint questioned.

"Outside the lab," Natasha responded. "Steve's in there." She peered cautiously through the small window to assess the situation.

Fifteen armed agents were positioned around the room, along with four scientists and doctors. Their focus was on the middle of the room where Steve lay restrained on a gleaming metal table, his eyes closed peacefully. With unease, Natasha noticed the lack of color in his face and sweat standing out on his brow.

As she watched, one of the scientists held a long syringe up to the light, and even from far away, Natasha could see the bead of liquid that dripped down the length of the needle from the tip. Her chest constricted with fear.

"They're about to inject him with something," she murmured to Clint. "I'm going in."

"Nat," Clint said warningly, "just wait for me. I'm almost there."

Natasha hesitated outside the door. It would be better to wait for Clint. It was easier to fight alongside him than by herself. But then the doctor took Steve's arm and lowered the needle.

Natasha burst through the door and made the doctor with the needle her first target.

Right after she squeezed the trigger, Clint swore. "Natasha, I told you to wait!"

She ignored him, completely focused as she suddenly became the target of fifteen Red Skull agents. The room was small, and she used it to her advantage, making sure to stay at angles that would get agents caught in the crossfire.

 _Where is Clint?_

She got close enough to kick a gun from an agent's hand, and he lunged for his belt.

 _A knife._

She darted out of the way, but a sharp twinge of pain shot through her ribcage. She gritted her teeth and shot him in the face.

Natasha took a shaky breath in, pressing a hand to her fresh wound as she slid under a nearby table. A round of bullets hit the floor in front of her and she pulled back, taking her hand off her wound in order to fire back. The gun slipped a little in her right hand as it recoiled from the shot. There was blood dripping off her fingers. She cursed and dragged her hand down her leg to clear away some of the blood.

"You holding up okay?" Clint sounded out of breath.

Natasha was cut short from answering by another volley of bullets splintering into the table leg next to her. She raised her pistol, anticipating the kick, and squeezed the trigger. An empty click was all that fired. _Damn._ She was out of bullets.

Natasha dropped the gun and held the second one steady in her hands.

 _One. Two. Three. Click._

Three more bullets, three more dead agents. She tossed her gun away and slid out from under the table. The wound in her side burned and sweat itched her forehead as she snapped necks between her thighs. A movement hooked her attention—a doctor that she thought she had killed was reaching slowly for a fallen assault rifle. She yanked it from his reach and clubbed him over the head.

The door clicked open behind Natasha and she swung around, quickly falling into a defensive stance. But it was Clint.

"Hey." He surveyed the aftermath.

Natasha sagged against a table, dropping her head down in exhaustion. Her curls slid forward, dropping in front of her eyes and sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

"You could've invited me to the party," Clint said dryly.

"You were taking too long," she responded, grunting as she pushed off the table.

"You take too many risks, Nat," Clint grumbled, following her to the table where Steve lay motionless.

"Well, it's a risky business to be in," Natasha said, stopping beside the table and starting to work on the restraints. Clint sighed and joined her.

"Are you okay?"

She glanced at him with a small smile. "When am I not?"

There was a small tray of utensils next to the table. Several empty syringes lay on it. Natasha picked one up to study.

"I wonder what was in these," She mused aloud.

"Whatever it was, it was strong enough to sedate Cap, so not good," said Clint. "By the way, I killed most of the Red Skull bastards, but not all of them. They may regroup soon and if they do, they won't keep their distance forever."

Natasha set down the empty syringe and leaned forward to unbuckle the restraint over Steve's chest. The sharp metal edge of the table dug into the knife wound in her ribcage, and she sucked in her breath and yanked back.

"Woah, woah, steady, Nat," Clint said, and suddenly he was right next to her, his hand on her upper arm. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Knife wound," Natasha muttered between clenched teeth. "It didn't go deep, though. Guy just threw it past me and it cut me up a little." She pressed on the throbbing injury. The pain was making her light-headed.

"Let's see." Clint turned her to face him and gently pried her hand away. When he saw her injury, he sucked in his breath. "That looks bad. That's a lot of blood."

"Wow, thank you for your expert diagnosis, Dr. Barton," Natasha said dryly, trying to make the situation a little lighter as she craned to see the damage. She was used to pushing back the pain.

"Nat, seriously," Clint argued, taking her by the arms. "We really need to get this looked at. A lot of blood means not good things."

Natasha looked at him to tell him she was fine, that they should hurry before the Red Skull agents found them. But when she looked at him, her gut constricted, her tongue twisted, and she was suddenly too aware of his grip on her arms, strong but gentle.

And the stupid hunger pains were back. She cursed them in Russian under her breath.

"Nat?" Clint took a step closer, searching her face anxiously, and her feet grew roots and buried themselves in the floor. "Are you okay?"

Natasha tried to answer but her mouth was too dry. She licked her lips. _Get a grip._

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just felt a little dizzy for a second. Lack of sleep or something probably. Also, I'm really hungry. That could be it."

"Or lack of blood," Clint suggested, but he sounded doubtful as he watched her attentively.

Natasha shrugged. "Could be."

Clint focused on something behind her and his eyes widened.

"Nat!" He barked, and reached backwards for an arrow right as she felt a tiny prick of pain in the side of her neck.

She spun around, ready to fight, but her fist landed on a doctor with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. He crumpled to the floor at her feet.

Natasha felt her neck carefully and found a syringe sticking out at the base. Gingerly, she plucked it out. Clint grabbed it from her and stared at it, his face going ashen white.

"Natasha, what was in this?" He demanded, sounding frantic as he shook the empty syringe accusingly in her face. "What did he give you?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, her heart pounding. Clint was worried and that didn't happen often. It was unnerving.

"Great, well, it was enough to sedate Steve." Clint scowled at the syringe like it had floated off the table and stuck itself in Natasha's vein of its own accord.

Natasha thought back to when she'd first approached Steve and seen the syringes on the table, and she let out a breath she hadn't remembered holding.

"I don't think anything was in it. I saw them when I came in and they were all empty."

"Are you sure?" Clint challenged. "Why would a doctor stab you with a syringe if there was nothing in it?"

 _Good question._

"I don't know," Natasha admitted. "There's a lot of major veins and nerves in your neck, though. He was probably hoping to hit one of them and delay us."

Clint frowned darkly and tossed the syringe.

"Let's get out of here."


	3. buttons

**Thanks again for all your support! I'm actually surprised at the amount of attention this story is getting, given that it's not too long yet :,) Anyways, here's chapter 3! Enjoy! Xx**

* * *

It was difficult to navigate a half-conscious super-human through an enemy facility while being shot at. Difficult, but not impossible. Somehow, they managed it. Clint had turned on the quinjet's cloaking mechanism before he left, so it was still completely intact.

Once they were in the air, Clint turned on autopilot so they could give Steve some much-needed medical attention. Clint and Natasha sat him down in the co-pilot's seat and gathered around him with the first-aid kit. Steve was becoming more alert, aside from being a little disoriented, and was able to tell them which injuries needed the most attention.

"Do you have any idea what you were injected with?" Clint asked, wrapping a wide gash on Steve's forearm.

"No, I don't." Steve's words slurred together. "They wanted to kill me. They had a serum, but it wasn't strong enough."

"They had a serum?" Natasha frowned. "But serums don't have any effect on you."

Steve shrugged stiffly. "This one did," he said. "They made it specifically for me."

Clint finished with the forearm gash and moved on to a head contusion. "They must have been planning this for a while."

"Not really," Steve told him. "Their leader uncovered a formula apparently created by some of Red Skull's scientists in the forties that was designed to kill me. Thankfully, they underestimated the strength of the Super Soldier serum."

 _Thank God._

Natasha glanced at Clint. He was watching her, probably thinking the same thing.

"Your turn," he announced suddenly.

Natasha froze. "What?"

He stepped over to her, armed with the first-aid kit. "You got stabbed, remember?"

Natasha snatched the kit from him. "I remember. And I can take care of it myself, thanks." For some reason, she was very averse to the prospect of Clint cleaning the wound on her ribcage. It was probably because she'd been taking care of herself since she was six; she was practically a certified doctor. She didn't need anyone going out of their way to help her.

Clint hesitated. "Is… there a problem?"

"Nope," Natasha said quickly. Steve looked in confusion between the two of them, like he couldn't decide who to root for in a tennis match.

Clint watched her for a second, then shrugged. "Suit yourself." But he didn't stop looking at her. A chill traveled the length of Natasha's spine.

 _Siberia's freezing. That's what it is._

Abruptly, Natasha escaped to lock herself in the tiny bathroom where she could strip down to her waist and clean her aching wound on her own.

It wasn't deep, but it looked nasty. The blood had begun to dry and when Natasha peeled her suit away, the healing wound re-opened. Carefully, she began cleaning the blood away with a disposable rag and some antiseptic. The antiseptic had a chilling sting to it that made Natasha shudder again.

Something told her that it wasn't just the cold that had made her shiver the first time. But she ignored that thought. After all, if it hadn't been the cold, what else could it have been?

Natasha quickly stitched up the gash, keeping her attention focused on her work. When she finished, she pulled her suit over her shoulders and zipped it up, but hesitated at the bathroom door, remembering standing in front of Clint and feeling an uncomfortable chill race down her spine.

 _I'll just put on a coat._

Her head was oddly light when she stepped out of the bathroom. Clint was talking to Steve when she entered and grabbed her coat from a storage area.

Clint glanced over at her.

"Well?" He asked expectantly when she joined them, tugging on her coat.

Natasha shrugged. "It'll heal." she pulled the coat more closely around her.

Clint started talking with Steve again, but Natasha suddenly became aware of a buzzing in her ears, and realized that she could hardly hear what he was saying. And she was so damn _cold_. Not that it was surprising. Russia was a cold place, after all.

Natasha stared absently out at the gray sky. It was cloudy, but she could see the tips of mountains in the distance, stretching past the clouds into the sky. She had grown up in places like this, all mountains and bare forests. All snow.

An icy sensation crawled up her spine, spreading into the back of her head all the way to the roots of her fiery hair, then down into her fingers and toes, filling her chest. Natasha shuddered and closed the coat over her front, intending to button it.

But her fingers wouldn't work. They were numb and clumsy and she couldn't grasp the buttons. Frustration pricked her insides and she stared at her fingers, willing them to move. But something was wrong with them. Natasha squinted down at her hands.

 _Am I imagining things?_

The tips of her fingers were frosty blue. Blue with cold. Like the night in the Red Room when twelve little girls huddled close to one another in a drafty room, practically naked in threadbare dresses that didn't fit right.

Blue lips. Blue fingers and toes. Vacant blue eyes of the smallest girl who didn't make it through the night.

Natalia couldn't stop staring at those lifeless eyes. She was horrified, frozen just like her fingers. She could have snapped one off like an icicle.

Death wasn't something a five-year-old should see. But Natalia saw it. She'd just never thought that Death would look like her friend. Not exactly like, but close. Too close.

Her knees gave out from under her suddenly, and she was falling, deep, deep down…

And then she wasn't.

Natasha blinked as the quinjet came back into focus, then Steve's blonde head and bewildered expression, then Clint's blue eyes inches from hers, concern written in them.

Slowly, she became aware of his arms around her, supporting her, and the fact that she was pressed against his chest. He was so _warm_.

"Nat?"

The overhead lights were too bright. A sharp pain stabbed in her temples.

"Nat, what's wrong?"

Natasha couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Clint so worried.

With some effort, she finally found her strength and stood, putting space between them. Icy cold claimed the place where his body heat had been just a second before.

Natasha was still disoriented, but she knew that something wasn't right. Her memories of the Red Room shouldn't have affected her so strongly. All of that was twenty years in the past.

"Nat?" Clint's voice brought her back to the present. "You're looking at me weird. Are you okay?"

Natasha hesitated. Clint looked so worried about her and she didn't want him to be.

"I'm fine." It slipped out before she could give it any more thought.

 _Okay. I guess I'm going with this._

"I was just about to sit down." She collapsed into the pilot's seat. Her legs didn't exactly give her much of a choice.

"Oh." Clint frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." It wasn't exactly a lie since she was feeling more alert by the second, but she still felt uncomfortable. She didn't usually keep anything from Clint. But she had to stick to her lie. She thought of how worried Clint was about her, and that settled it. She couldn't have him worried about her.

Dubiously, Clint narrowed his eyes at her. "But you'd tell me, right? If anything was wrong?"

"Of course," Natasha repeated.

"Hm." Clint seemed unconvinced. Probably because she didn't exactly mean it.

"Okay." Clint shifted on his feet. "Well, are you going to fly this thing, or am I? Cause we need more altitude."

"You can fly," Natasha said a little too quickly, imagining how disastrous it would be if something happened while she was flying a plane. "I'm tired," she added, to justify herself. That much, at least, was true. She moved out of the way for Clint, and Steve gave up the co-pilot's seat for her, announcing that he was going to try to get some sleep in the back of the quinjet.

He paused in front of the cabin door as Natasha slid her headset on.

"By the way, I really appreciate you guys coming all the way out here to give me a hand."

"No problem, man," said Clint. "It wasn't like you interrupted us from anything."

Natasha's head snapped up. But Clint wasn't looking at her.

"Besides sleep," he added as an afterthought. "Which, come to think of it, is kind of important."

Natasha realized she was staring and looked away quickly. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out what he meant. Obviously, he was referring to the night before. But did he bring it up on purpose? Was he being sarcastic? If he was, maybe it meant he was disappointed that whatever moment they might have had was interrupted. And if that was true, then maybe that meant he thought it was a moment that should not have been interrupted.

 _Snap out of it, Romanoff._

Natasha scowled deeply, irritated with herself. She was psychoanalyzing every word he said, as if she genuinely wanted to know what he was thinking. Which she didn't. Nothing he said was proof of anything else, and she didn't care even if it was.

She didn't care.


	4. midnight

**A/N: I'm finally getting around to posting the rest of this! :) I finished high school so all that's left is some summer school before I head off to college in the fall! And you have Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell to thank for me hopping back on the fanfiction bus... I read that book for the first time last week and it really inspired me to come back and keep writing. Hopefully you'll be seeing a little more of me and this fic in the future!**

 **Enjoy! ~w.a.o.n.n.y. Xx**

* * *

When they arrived back at headquarters, Steve was whisked away on a stretcher by a waiting team of medics to the S.H.I.E.L.D. infirmary to be examined and treated.

Natasha was hungry and exhausted, and the incision in her ribcage was throbbing painfully. She could tell Clint was tired too - his eyes were dull and his eyelids heavy, and his stomach kept growling.

"Food and then sleep?" Natasha suggested as she and Clint left the hangar.

"Food and then sleep," Clint agreed. "I'm thinking pizza. How 'bout you?" Natasha's stomach answered for her, and Clint's eyes crinkled as he grinned.

"Pizza it is, then."

###

First, Fury wanted them to check in and update him on Steve, his mission, and the Red Skull Organization. So Clint and Natasha strode down the familiar halls of the Triskelion to Fury's office in silence, too tired to speak. They normally took the stairs, but this time, they both headed for the elevator bank. Another agent slipped in with them before the doors closed.

"What floor?" Clint asked, his finger hovering over the buttons.

"Two," the agent replied. "Thanks."

Clint pressed the button and the elevator hummed as it began to rise.

The second floor. That was where the containment units were. Natasha vividly remembered staying in one, remembered her first day at the Triskelion, when she'd been escorted by Clint and a whole team of agents to the second floor. She had been incarcerated on the second floor for the following six months in a nine-by-twelve space with nothing to do but think.

The elevator came to a halt, and after the agent got off, it continued to rise. Clint said something behind her, but the low rumbling of the elevator drowned out his voice. When had it gotten so loud? She turned to Clint, a question ready on her lips, then faltered. It hadn't been the elevator rumbling - it was thunder.

She was back in Russia.

Driving rain bit at her skin and drenched her body like blood. There was someone in front of her, but she couldn't make out his face. Dark, angry clouds obscured the stars, and raindrops clung to her lashes and dripped into her eyes. Natalia blinked them away. The man in front of her was an archer; she could see him clearly now. An arrow, aimed straight between her eyes, was nocked and resting against the bow, the bowstring taut like the muscles of the arms that had bent it.

 _Hawkeye._

The realization sent a jolt of panic through her. She was unarmed, and he was far enough from her that any slight movement she made would send that arrow flying straight into her head before she reached the archer.

Natalia met his eyes. They were sharp and gray, unyielding. He hadn't moved yet, hadn't loosed the arrow. And Natalia realized that she wanted him to.

Maybe she was tired of killing. Maybe she was sick of being the gun that was the cause of so many gruesome deaths, when it should have been the finger pulling the trigger that took the blame. But the reason didn't matter. All she knew for sure was that all the fight had left her. She was ready to die. And Hawkeye was giving her an easy way out of this irredeemable existence. She was grateful.

But he didn't shoot. Natalia waited; waited for the twitch of his fingers, the soft twang of the bowstring releasing. But he didn't shoot and she started to think he might never.

"Go ahead." She spoke in his native language, her voice carrying across the seemingly endless space between them, over the hammering of rain. "Kill me."

But he didn't.

"Shoot, damn you," she whispered, and began to shake there in the rain, waiting.

Hawkeye lowered his weapon, just slightly. "I'm not going to kill you." He sounded farther away than he looked. Natalia closed her eyes. "I don't want to go back." She had never been so honest with a stranger. Maybe she had never been so honest with herself. "Please let me die."

Natalia opened her eyes again, and they met his through the rain. Maybe she said more to him with her eyes than she did with her voice.

He raised his bow again, and the arrow was flying now, straight and true.

" _Spesibo_." It was barely a whisper that escaped her lips.

"Natasha? Oh god, something's wrong, someone call a medic - Nat, are you ok?"

Hawkeye's tone seemed almost frantic, and didn't match his expression, which was as steady as it had been before. He watched calmly as the arrow penetrated her skin, cracked the bones of her skull, and buried itself deep in her forehead.

Natasha collapsed.

###

Clint paced the lobby of the infirmary, a half-finished cup of coffee cooling in his hand. It was midnight, almost two and a half hours after Natasha had passed out in the elevator, and Clint was waiting for the all-clear from the doctors before going in to see her.

He sipped his coffee absentmindedly. Now matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase from his mind the image of her in the elevator, how pale her face was, the vacant, trance-like look in her eyes. And she'd told him to kill her. For the second time in her life.

Clint's frown deepened and he picked up his pace.

 _Go ahead, kill me. I want to die._

He'd never thought he'd have to hear her say those words again. In the moment, his response was the same as it had been so long ago. _I'm not going to kill you._ It had felt like a horrible, twisted kind of deja vu. Clint wondered if she had thought it was real, that she was living in the past somehow. Only one thing she had said didn't seem to match perfectly with his memory.

 _Spesibo_ , she'd said. _Thank you._

The implications, combined with the grateful tone of her voice when she'd said the word, send a shudder down Clint's spine. What was it that she thought he had done? Whatever it was, it hadn't happened the first time.

"Agent Barton?" A nurse stepped into the room. Clint turned quickly, his heartbeat picking up.

"How is she?"

"She's awake, but you can't see her yet," the nurse informed him. "Right now, we're testing for a drug or a poison in her bloodstream. We're exploring the possibility that the knife she was stabbed with was coated with some type of poison. There is a biochemist with her now, so I'd ask that you remain here until she's finished."

"Just tell me when I can see her," Clint requested.

"Of course, Agent Barton." The nurse left the room and Clint returned to his pacing, taking another swallow of room-temperature coffee. He got in a couple more circles around the room before the door opened and Fury entered.

"How you holding up, Barton?" he asked, settling into a chair.

Clint set his coffee on a table, dropped into the chair across from Fury, and began jogging his knee listlessly. "I'm ok, thanks, sir. But I'm not sure how Natasha's holding up." He dropped his head into his hands. "It's my fault. Something happened in Siberia. She was stabbed by what might have been a poisoned knife, and I should have taken her to a hospital in Russia as soon as it happened." He was disgusted with himself.

"Agent, did you harm Romanoff yourself?"

Clint sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hands. "No."

"Well, then, I fail to see how this is your fault, Barton."

"It's just-" Clint stood again, frustrated, and resumed his pacing. "I should have realized. She spaced out once before, back in Siberia, and I should have realized something was off then. I'm her partner. It's my job to keep her safe."

"Agent, you're giving yourself too much credit," Fury said bluntly. "Natasha does a good job keeping her own ass covered. This Russian hospital business?" He waved a hand dismissively. "Sounds complicated. And expensive. Yes, the fact remains that she was injured in the field, but that's a fluke. It could just as easily be you laying in that hospital bed right now."

Clint didn't agree, but it would be no use to say so. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right."

"But I still think I should have made her visit a hospital for that stab wound," Clint said, just for the sake of arguing.

"Like I said: complicated. Expensive."

The door opened, and a nurse stepped in. "You can see her."


End file.
